Letter From Milo: A Clarification From Mrs. Milo

December 18th, 2018

Okay, alright, so maybe I went a little overboard with my last post. I’ll admit it was crude, profane and sexist. I’ll even go so far as to say it was far beneath my normal standards and, believe me folks, my normal standards are pretty low.

But, honestly, what did you expect from something titled “Pussy Magnet?”

Not only were my readers outraged, the honchos of this site were deeply offended, too. That scabby fucker, Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this outfit, suspended me for three days, fined me a substantial sum of money and threatened to pistol whip me if I ever post anything like that again. His cohort, that rotten bastard Benny Jay, was also upset. He called me a disgrace to the blogging community and disinvited me to his NBA Draft Party and Poetry Slam. Even that low-life Jon Randolph, the guy that poses as the photographer for this site, was disgusted. He threatened to release some rather embarrassing photos he took of me at the Chippendale’s Alumni Reunion party in 1983.

That wasn’t the worst thing that happened, however. No, the worst thing was that my wife found out about the post and, man, was she pissed. I don’t know who ratted me out, but I suspect it was one of her slutty girlfriends, probably Kathy Ivcich. She always had it in for me.

Anyway, I was sitting at my computer, writing a letter of complaint to the Swedish Dick Extension Company, when my wife confronted me. I had just typed in the words “Dear Sven” when she screeched in my ear.

“Are you crazy! Have you lost your mind!”

“What is it this time, dear?”

“That crap you wrote in your last blog. I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life.”

“Which blog was that, angel? I’ve written several of them, you know.”

“Quit being an asshole. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, you must be referring to Pussy Magnet.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“I take it, heh, heh, you didn’t care for it.”

“I loathed it. Were you drunk when you wrote it?”

“I may have had a smidgen of wine.”


We carried on in this manner for a while and then things started to get ugly. The only way I could pacify my wife was to turn over the rest of this blog to her. She wanted to personally apologize to the readers of the The Third City. So, ladies and gentlemen, here’s Mrs. Milo:

I’m Mrs. Milo and I want to say that I’m terribly sorry for that piece of trash my husband wrote. It’s so nasty that I can’t even bear to repeat the name of it. I don’t know what got into him but I believe it was a bottle of Cabernet.
The whole blog was nothing but a pack of lies. To be honest, he’s not the stud he claims to be. In fact, he’s a complete dud in bed. He knows as much about sex as he does about quantum physics. The only reason I married him was because I felt sorry for him. And that nonsense about his “God-given attributes” is just pathetic. At best, he’s below average in that department, even on his good days.
I’ve already made an appointment with a marriage counselor and I’m checking into some sort of therapy. Rehab is not out of the question, either. Plus, I’m considering talking to a lawyer, just to see what my options are. Believe me, if I had known what I was getting into when I married him, I would have stuck my head in an oven a long time ago. God, what a loser he turned out to be.

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Letter From Milo: Ladies Man

December 9th, 2018
I hate to brag, but I’m a real pussy magnet. Even though I’m 61 years old, balding, cranky and prone to farting at inappropriate times, I still have a dick that Man ‘o War would envy. Other than that, I’m just a regular guy.


Now, a lot of you may think that being a pussy magnet is all fun and games. Lolling around on an oversize bed, wearing silk pajamas, sipping fine brandy, surrounded by adoring women eager to satisfy your every whim. Although in many cases – including mine – that is absolutely true, sometimes being a pussy magnet is just plain hard work.


Take a former acquaintance of mine named Charles. I used to run into him on the North Side Gigolo Circuit. I didn’t know him well. In fact, the only thing I knew about him was that he was the hardest working pussy magnet I ever met. He was the James Brown of pussy magnets. When Charles wanted to get laid he would walk into a bar and hit on every woman in the place. He had no shame, no technique and no taste. If there were a hundred women in the joint he would approach them all and ask each one if they wanted to go home with him. It didn’t matter how often he was turned down, laughed at, ignored or had drinks thrown in his face, He had skin as thick as a water buffalo’s hide. As single minded as a junkie, he moved from woman to woman until, invariably, he found one who said yes.


Admittedly, it wasn’t the approach that legendary pussy magnets like Errol Flynn, Warren Beatty or the immortal Porfirio Rubirosa would have used, but it worked for Charles. I haven’t seen Charles in more than 20 years. Word on the street is that he found Jesus and now chases salvation with the same fervor he once chased pussy.


I never had a problem hooking up, as the young ‘uns say. I would stroll into a fine watering hole and in 15 minutes I would walk out with two or three of the best looking women in the place. We would then retire to my bachelor pad where we would frolic on an epic scale, engaging in debauchery that would have boggled the mind of the Marquis De Sade.


People often confuse pussy magnets and gigolos. The simplest way to explain it is that pussy magnets fuck for fun, gigolos fuck for money.


I once considered becoming a gigolo. With my devastatingly good looks and awesome God-given physical attributes I would have been a natural. Women would have lined up to have mind-blowing sex with me. As a young man growing up in Gary, Indiana, I knew that I would eventually be an extremely handsome man. I also knew that my looks would be my meal ticket to a better life. After considering my career options at the time – steelworker, grave digger, washroom attendant, school janitor, ice cream truck driver or gigolo – I decided the latter was the way to go.


I had always imagined gigolos to be glamorous, suave, polished men who escorted wealthy, older but still attractive women to theaters, fine restaurants and glittering social events. And after the play, restaurant or party these graceful, refined men would take their escorts to a luxurious penthouse or fine hotel and give them a thorough, professional-grade fucking, leaving them limp and exhausted, with barely enough energy left to write out a handsome check. Sounded good to me.


As soon as I had settled on my life’s work, I decided I needed to get in a little practice. Unfortunately, there was a severe shortage of wealthy, older but still attractive women in Gary at that time. In fact, I doubt there was a woman in the entire town who fit that description. I had no choice but to put my gigolo aspirations on indefinite hold.


Like most kids who never realize their childhood dreams of becoming cops, firemen, or cowboys, I never became a gigolo. Life intervened. Something always got in the way. There was the military and a bit of college. Later, there were drugs, booze and rock ‘n roll. I was always a lazy bastard (see my earlier post about the Bum Gene), and, from what I understand, being a gigolo can be time-consuming.


Still, even though I never became a gigolo, I became a first class pussy magnet. I cut a swath through the North Side that made General Sherman‘s march through Georgia seem like a stroll through the Botanic Garden. Wilt Chamberlain had nothing on me. Even the great Bruce Diksas, a legendary pussy magnet in his own right, was envious of my skill with the ladies. I became so well known for my amorous exploits that aspiring young pussy magnets would come to me for advice.


“Milo, is it true that size doesn’t matter?”


“Absolutely. You can have just as much fun with a fat woman as a skinny woman.”


“Milo, why do women fake orgasms?”


“What! Are you nuts? I never heard of such a thing.”


Once a pussy magnet always a pussy magnet. Even though I’ve been married for more than 25 years and not quite the #2 pencil I was in my heyday, women still find me irresistable. They know that when they have the great fortune to find themselves in bed with me that they are in the hands of a master.


Like I mentioned earlier, I’m not the active pussy magnet I used to be, but I still like to keep my hand in. Every one in a while I’ll sneak out, visit a night spot, pick up a couple of the finest women in the place and proceed to satisfy their wildest sexual cravings. I can’t help myself. That’s what pussy magnets do.


Just do me a favor, fellas. Don’t say anything to my wife about this pussy magnet stuff. She’ll kill me if she finds out.
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Jim Siergey: Natty At Nat’s

December 9th, 2018

My hair was getting scraggly so I went over to Nat’s, a neighborhood barber shop that I had been to once before.

On that initial visit I nearly drove through the big front window as I mistakenly thought the tiny bit of concrete in front of the joint was big enough in which to park. It wasn’t.

I have a tendency to make a first impression that smacks of buffoonery and danger.

I consequently learned that there was a parking lot in the back with a rear entry. I also learned that the guy cutting my hair was not Nat. Nat was the woman working the chair next to us.


This time, feeling like an old pro, I parked in the back, which was void of other cars, and accessed Nat’s establishment through the rear door.

As I entered the emporium I was faced with an empty shop except for Nat and another woman. They were sweeping and straightening up.

“Are you open for business?” I thoughtfully inquired.

“Oh, yes, we are.” Nat replied, “We were so busy yesterday, even past closing hours that we didn’t feel like cleaning up. So we’re doing it now.”

Using my arcane knowledge of facts and figures I offered, “Aren’t barber shops usually closed on Mondays?”

“Today is Wednesday.”

I need to get more arcanely involved with the calendar.

Seated with the big barber bib draped over me, I told Nat that I was interested in a trim. Nothing too severe, I added.

She asked if I wanted to keep the hair on my ears.

I thought to myself, “Well, jeeze. I do the best that I can but, unfortunately, excess ear hair comes along at the same time as fading eyesight. So, no, I don’t w…”

Then I realized she was talking about the hair on my head that was touching my ears.

“Oh, no.” I spoke with a hint of embarrassment.” Not necessarily.”


Barber at work…


As she fluffed my hair fenders, which she referred to as “wings”, she said “I mean, I’m not gonna give you White Walls.”

“White Walls?” I repeated and then immediately realizing what she meant, added, “I never heard that term before.”

“That’s what the old guys call it.”

She proceeded to snip and clip and when she had finished she handed me my glasses and held up the giant hand mirror so I could inspect her handiwork. It looked fabulous. I felt fabulous.

Then she asked, “Shall I trim your beard?”

A lump formed in my throat. This was really getting invasive now. This could be worse than letting someone else pour milk into your cup of coffee. How could someone know how much is enough or too much?

As I began to Kramden (“homina, homina, homina”) she pounced upon my tentativeness and said with soft assurance, “Y’know, just get rid of these stray hairs and stuff.”

So I relented and consented.

She produced a large electric clipper with an angled attachment that resembled a locomotive’s “cow catcher” and proceeded to run it though my beard like she was mowing a lawn.

It felt like she was shaving off my beard but, yet at the same time, didn’t feel that way. It was a facial dichotomy.

She finished and brought out the giant mirror again. OMG, my beard never looked so well-trimmed before. This tool she brandished sure could do a lot more than the tools I use, pinking shears and tweezers.

As I paid her asking fee to which I added a healthy tip, I proclaimed to Nat, “I feel like I’ve been to a tonsorial spa!”

My comment was met in the same way most of my comments are met—with a pause and a hesitant chortle.

I wouldn’t have it any differently. It’s the way I roll.

Sometimes right through the front window.


Editor’s note: Jim’s last post for The Third City was Almost Like Tom Thumb’s Blues


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Letter From Milo: Mr. Hendrix In Vietnam

December 4th, 2018
I guess I’m just an old rocker. My musical tastes were formed in the late 60s and early 70s. I still listen to the old warhorses – Dylan, the Stones, Janis Joplin, the Dead, Cream, Traffic, the Doors, Van Morrison. If I’m driving down the street and hear one of my old favorites on the radio I turn up the volume until the car vibrates.


That said, there is one musician I esteem above all others, a musician whose music still sends a chill up my spine, someone who took the electric guitar to places it’s never been before and created sounds that have been copied but never equaled.


I’m talking about Jimi Hendrix, genius, guitar god and war hero.


I first became aware of Hendrix in 1967, the year I graduated high school. His first hit, “Purple Haze,” was all over the radio. The sound was like nothing I had ever heard before – big, bold, discordant, but undeniably different. It was alien to my unsophisticated ears. I just didn’t get it. But, you have to understand, I had not started smoking pot yet.


A year later I was in Vietnam and I got it. Boy did I get it. The Vietnamese conflict has been called the Rock ‘n Roll War. Music was everywhere. It seemed that every soldier had his own cassette player and collection of cassette tapes. I remember my first day in-country. I had just gotten off an airplane along with 200 other new fish and was standing on the tarmac at the Da Nang air base, listening to a bored 2nd Lieutenant welcoming us to Vietnam. While the 2nd Lt. was droning on about the noble mission we were about to undertake, I heard music in the background, coming from a collection of raggedy tents just off the runway. It was the Doors.


This is the end/
This is the end/
my friend


Welcome to Vietnam.


Just like in the good old USA, there were racial problems among the American soldiers in Vietnam. If you recall, the late 60s were when King, Kennedy and Malcolm were assassinated. There were riots in the streets of our major cities. Students were forming revolutionary cells and plotting to overthrow the government. Lines were drawn between the races, the generations and the body politic. It was a time of supreme tension and nobody could say with certainty what the future held.


What was happening in the States was mirrored in Vietnam. It was like a bizarre reflection of what was occurring on the streets back home. Lines were also drawn, political and racial. Black guys hung with black guys, white guys hung with white guys and Latinos kept to themselves. There were actually mini race riots in some of the division base camps like Chu Lai and Da Nang. We didn’t have these problems in the field because, as infantrymen, we had more pressing concerns, like trying to keep the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Regulars from killing us while at the same time trying to kill them.


It was a different story back in the relative safety of the division camps. The REMFS (Rear Echelon Motherfuckers) had more time on their hands. And they spent some of that time fomenting racial discord. I’m not saying that all the soldiers were like that, but there were enough of them, both black and white, to create serious and often lethal problems. After all, when you mix young men, ethnic strife and automatic rifles together, there are bound to be a few…, ah, misunderstandings.


Music played a role in the racial divide. The music you listened to defined who you were. Black guys listened to soul and funk from Motown and Memphis. White guys listened to rock and country. And some poor souls just paid attention to their own demons. There was one musician, however, who crossed all boundaries, someone who both blacks and whites idolized.


That was Jimi Hendrix.


Whenever you saw groups of blacks and white partying together, sitting around bonfires, drinking warm beer and smoking pot, the chances are that the music blaring from cassette machines was played by Jimi Hendrix. There were several reasons for this adoration of Jimi. The first, obviously, was that he was a supernaturally gifted musician. He simply had no equal. His audacious combination of rock riffs, deep understanding of the blues and soulful stylings (he once played guitar in the Isley Brothers band) spoke to everyone.


Another reason he was loved by the troops was that Jimi had once been a soldier himself. Before becoming Jimi Hendrix, he had been James Marshall Hendrix, a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne Division. That simple connection made it seem that Jimi was one of us. We felt that he understood us and our terrible plights in ways that British fops like Jagger, McCartney and Clapton never could.


On Highway 1, near the South China Sea, there was a hill near the village of Sai Hyun called Hendrix Hill. This particular hill was strewn with huge rocks and boulders. On one of the largest boulders someone had painted, in letters that seemed 10 feet high, the word Hendrix. The boulder was easily seen from the highway and every time I passed it I couldn’t help but smile. It was our Hollywood sign.


When Jimi came out with his “Electric Ladyland” album, there was a song on it that became seared into the mind of practically every soldier who heard it. The song was called “1983… (A Merman I Should Turn To Be).” There’s a line in that song that’s guaranteed to bring a tear to every Vietnam veteran’s eye. The line is:


Well, it’s too bad/
that our friends/
can’t be with us today


The line evokes memory, pain and loss. It brings back memories of old friends and comrades in arms, young men who died far too young, in a country 10,000 miles from home, often in circumstances too gruesome to relate.


To this day, when I hear that line, I have to stop whatever I’m doing and spend a few moments recalling those who made the supeme sacrifice. Faces and names run through my mind – Captain David Walsh, Sweet Jimmy Ingram, Stony Deel and many others whose names are etched on a granite wall in Washington D.C.


I’m going to wrap it up now. I’m going to put on “Electric Ladyland” and try to find some comfort on this rainy day. Jimi had a way of comforting a lot of souls. That’s what heroes do.
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Jim Siergey: Almost Like Tom Thumb’s Blues

December 4th, 2018

I have a bum thumb.

It’s pretty bum.

It’s so bum, all it needs is a long stick with a checkerboard patterned bindle to complete the picture.

It’s been bum for a few weeks now, maybe as many as some. Don’t rightly know what happened to it but there are theories.

There are always theories.

Its sensitivity to touch is so painful that it reaches the yelp mark. By that yelp mark remark, I don’t mean online reviews. I mean an involuntary sound of discomfort. A yelp.

Trying to bend it is even worse. The yelpness of my condition makes it difficult to grasp so I’ve been operating with a thumb and a half. I may still have opposing thumbs but one of them is just posing as a thumb.

Like anything one takes for granted, if it is taken away, one notices how much one uses said anything. Such undertakings as unscrewing a cap, turning a doorknob or pulling up my pants have become difficult and clumsy.

I have become somewhat adept at using my two forefingers as a makeshift thumb but it’s tough doing stuff sans pouce, if you’ll pardon my French.

After about a week of this condition, I broke down and went over to Walgreens and got myself a thumb brace. It is black cloth-covered elastic that slips over my hand, leaving my fingers free and open. The thumb part is padded and stiff enough to work as a soft cast. It gives support to my thumb and decreases the yelpdom considerably.



As one might expect, the soft cast is somewhat cumbersome but like any good athlete, I’ve learned to adapt and now wield it with my usual amount of dexterity and grace. I’m like a gazelle.


Okay, it should be quite obvious by now that I consider any kind of personal discomfort as a situation of monumental concern, however, I do realize how lucky I am to not have a more debilitating disability.  I get the whole thing about crying because I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet.

A’course, my condition is a bit higher up.

Whatever. After all the adages and bromides have been rolled out, I still have a bum thumb and I still wonder why.

Could the cause be arthritis?  Possibly. This here afflicted thumb of mine was double-jointed. In my youth I could waggle it about in and out of its socket. It was enough to gross some people out. I could also shoot spitballs off of it. Not a great distance, so put down your Guinness Book of Records books, but some distance.

So, it could be ol’ Uncle Arthur coming to visit and stay awhile. O, how dear is the price I pay for phalangeal peculiarity.

But, it seems to have come on rather suddenly so another theory suggests that it could merely be a deep bruise from gripping a tined lawn implement too tightly and too often. Case in point, I have done an awful lot of raking this past Autumn, an awful lot.

We moved this year and these new digs have a great deal of yard space, front and back. And there are these Town Rules about how and when to discard leaves. Being new to the area and having an awful lot of dried tree droppings on my yard and not really knowing schedules and deadlines and such, I raked, like I used to vote when I lived in Chicago, early and often.

Hey! Is there a crime in tryin’ to be a good citizen? Harrumph.

I’m hoping the cause of it is Reason #2. That means it will eventually get better and I’ll know how to avoid such an injury next year. Avoid being the key word.

Ah, well. So I’m bummed by my bum thumb. Call me Sissy Hankshaw if you wish. I don’t care. She knows about thumbs.

And the blues.

Editor’s note: Jim’s last post for The Third City was The Smell Of Sawdust

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Letter From Milo: Tough Business

November 28th, 2018
I’ve run my own small business – make that a very small business – for about 15 years. I’m not saying I run it well, I’m just saying I run it. I’ve made good money, decent money and chump change. I’ve seen good times and bad times, but I’ve never seen times as bad as these.


The way the economy is going you have to wonder if Karl Marx wasn’t right after all. Like hunter-gatherer societies, barter economies and the colonial system, maybe true capitalism’s time has passed. Maybe it’s time for a new economic system to emerge, something that still rewards individual initiative but takes into consideration the immense disparity in the distribution of our planet’s natural resources.


Why should a few nations, blessed with an abundance of natural resources, prosper while other nations, blessed with an abundance of sand, rocks, snakes and AK-47s, teeter on the brink of collapse. It doesn’t seem fair. It’s a small world, dangerous and very crowded. Such obvious disparities in wealth serve only to inflame the have-nots. New chickens are hatching every day and they’ll all be needing a place to roost.


Whoa! I’m getting in over my head here. My world view is basically limited to what I can see out of my window. If I try to go beyond that I generally get a headache and have to retire to my couch with a cold Blatz and the remote control.


I was just reading an editorial about about the bankruptcy of General Motors. The writer opined that GM was too big to fail. What kind of bullshit is that! Too big to fail! The dinosaurs failed. The Roman Empire failed. The Soviet Union failed. Everything eventually fails. Do people think GM is going to last as long as the pyramids? Let GM succeed or fail on its own merits. I’ve got no sympathy for a company that foisted a monstrosity like the Hummer on an unsuspecting public. I mean, who the hell needs to drive a military assault vehicle on the streets of Chicago? Might as well outfit a Sherman tank with baby seats and a roof rack and call it a family sedan.


My concern is not with the GMs, AIGs and big banks of the world. I’m concerned about the little guy. My sympathies lie with the auto worker not the auto company. My heart goes out to the bank teller not the greedy bank honchos who helped cause this economic meltdown. While the fat MBA-festooned bastards are grudgingly accepting the blame, they are not suffering any of the consequences. At the end of the day, they will retire to their gated communities, while the unemployed autoworker and bank teller will be lucky to hang on to their split-levels and bungalows.


Swear to God, if it wasn’t for those unreasonable statutes that deprive a man of his liberty for committing even the most righteous of murders, I’d go and…


Ah, never mind. Where was I? Oh, yeah. As I was saying, as a small business owner, I rely on a lot of other small business owners to help me provide my advertising services. Several of my clients are small businesses, too, and it breaks my heart, not to mention my wallet, to see them struggling to stay afloat and, and many cases, drowning.


Small businesses are dropping like flies. I’ve seen mom and pop print shops go out of business. I seen advertising specialty suppliers, the people that provide coffee mugs, ball caps and ink pens with logos on them, go under. I’ve listened to the sad stories of print makers, rubber stamp manufacturers and silk screeners. I’ve commiserated with photographers who had to close their studios and designers who wonder where they’ll get the money to update their computer equipment. I’ve listened to people who have worked hard and honorably all their lives wonder if they’ll ever be able to retire.


I listen and listen and listen, and all I can do is quote the great Marvin Gaye: “What’s Going On?”
In my very first posting on this blog site, I promised that I would never lie to the American people. Although I’ve fudged on that promise a few times, I’ll be completely honest now. I’m suffering, too. My business is going through the same problems that other small business are dealing with – budgets slashed or eliminated, lack of credit, longer payment terms and clients defaulting on invoices.


I don’t now how much longer I can or want to keep it going. If things don’t pick up in the next six months I’ll have to make some tough decisions. As it is, I’m probably going to have to get a night job, something to help make ends meet. The only problem is that half the people in the country are looking for night jobs to help make ends meet. As W.C. Fields said, “It’s a tough old world, you’re lucky to get out of it alive.”


Anybody wanna start a riot?
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Jim Siergey: The Smell of Sawdust

November 28th, 2018

The circus came to town! No, not the one in Washington. That one has too many clowns and not enough derring-do.

This was the Orak Shrine Circus, one of, if not the last, traveling circuses in the U.S. It had pitched its tent in nearby Hammond, Indiana. Why not run off and join it? As a spectator, of course.

Now, it hadn’t really pitched a tent, it was taking place indoors in the Hammond Civic Center. Since it was a cold, wet night, that was a good thing.

It had been a long time since I had been to a circus plus my young granddaughters had never been to one. Every kid should see a circus at least once in his lifetime and since they may not be around for much longer and that iron was hot enough to strike we done struck it.

Me, the wife, the grandkids, their parents and two other kid-at-heart adult friends joined in and we trekked on up to the Hammond Civic Center.

Once inside, the smell of freshly popped popcorn permeated our senses. Lovely ladies clad in pert red usherette uniforms and caps took our tickets and gents in black uniforms with gold braids across their chests showed us to the doorways of entry. As we would soon discover, these same folks were also the circus performers.

circus4Nothing like a circus…
Old men in Shriner fezzes welcomed us all and directed us to the bleachers and seats. We situated ourselves across from the center ring in what turned out to be a three-ringer. In the center ring were elephant rides for the kids (Twenty bucks for two lumbering laps around the ring). In another ring were pony rides. Off to the side was face painting, photos with a snake, photos with Spider Man (one of the aeralists) and other pre-show money-makers.

The lessons taught by P.T. Barnum were still being carried out.

Eventually, the time had come for the Greatest Show on Earth to begin. Everyone settled in their seats and the hall grew dark, except for all the electric sparking toys that kids persuaded their parents to buy for them.

Then came a bit of culture shock. No more calliope music going “Da Da Daddle La Da Da Da Da”. It has been replaced with Disco/House Music/ Acid Rock stuff and lasers as the performers strutted into the arena. Oh well, one must keep up with the times, mustn’t one? Like Paul Simon sang “Keepin’ the customer satisfied”.

Well, it did what a circus does, it entertained. We were captivated by muscular female (and male) aeralists, gymnasts, tightrope walkers, jugglers, an amazing crossbow act, tigers and elephants!

Note: For those who have a phobia, there is only one clown and he appears twice.

The wild animal tamer was not from the Old School, pith helmeted whip handler with a chair held menacingly in front of him. This feller was sort of gentle and had the big cats (one of ‘em was a large white tiger) doing docile yet disciplined acts, moving in formation, leaping over one another and walking on hind legs.

He did not stick his head in any of their mouths.

Now, I understand the whole outrage about animals in the circus and their mistreatment. I’m all for the ethical treatment of our fellow beasts. I always did dislike animal acts, especially the ones where dogs or monkeys were dressed in silly outfits. I even get creeped out by non-circus dog owners who dress up their pets. Brrrr.

The Orak Shrine Circus people go out of their way to give notice that the animals they have in their circus are treated like family. They respect them. It says so on their web site so it must be true, right?

All in all, it was a fun time at the circus. Even the modern day girls, having grown up on Sponge Bob Square Pants, video games and cell phones seemed to have a good time. I sneaked peeks at them from time to time and they seemed to be enthralled by what they were witnessing.

Of course they were too cool to admit it. Afterwards when I asked them, “So, was that the Greatest Show on Earth or what?” their reply was a hesitant “Ye-ahhh, I guess so.”

Kids these days. As Rodney Dangerfield was fond of saying “Ooh, they’re a tough crowd.”


Editor’s note: Jim’s last post for The Third City was Support or Stition

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